A Clean Kill in Tokyo

files kept by the Immigration Bureau. The latter kept information on all foreign residents in Japan, including age, birthplace, address, employer, fingerprints, and a photograph. Using this information, Harry had been able to quickly determine that the other foreigners failed to match the description I had provided. He had also obligingly hacked and uploaded Bulfinch’s photo so I could confirm that we were talking about the same guy. We were.
    Harry had recommended a look at forbes.com, where Bulfinch’s articles were archived. I checked the site, and spent several hours reading Bulfinch’s accounts of suspected alliances between the government and the yakuza, about how the Liberal Democratic Party uses threats, bribery, and intimidation to control the press, about the cost of all this corruption to the average Japanese.
    Bulfinch’s English-language articles had little impact in Japan, and the local media were obviously not following up on his efforts. I imagined this would be frustrating for him. On the other hand, it was probably the reason I hadn’t been tasked with removing him.
    My guess was that Kawamura was one of Bulfinch’s sources, hence the reporter’s presence on the train that morning and his quick search of Kawamura. I felt some abstract admiration for his doggedness: his source is having a heart attack right in front of him and all he does is search the guy’s pockets for a deliverable.
    Someone must have found out about the connection, figured it was too risky to take out a foreign bureau chief, and decided to just plug the leak instead. It had to look natural, or it would have provided more grist for Bulfinch’s mill. So they called me.
    All right, then. There had been no B-team. I had been wrong about Benny. I could let this one go.
    I looked at my watch. It was not quite five o’clock. If I wanted to, I could easily get to the Blue Note by seven, when the first set would begin.
    I liked her music and I liked her company. She was attractive, and, I sensed, attracted to me. Enticing combination.
    Just go,
I thought.
It’ll be fun. Who knows what’ll happen afterward? Could be a good night. The chemistry is there. Just a one-nighter. Could be good.
    But that was all bullshit. I couldn’t say what would happen after her performance, but Midori didn’t feel like a one-nighter. That was exactly why I wanted to see her, and exactly why I couldn’t.
    What’s wrong with you?
I thought.
You need to call someone. Maybe Keiko-chan, she’s usually good for a few laughs. A late dinner, maybe that little Italian place in Hibiya, some wine, a hotel.
    For the moment, though, the prospect of a night with Keiko-chan was oddly depressing. Maybe a workout instead. I decided to head over to the Kodokan, one of the places where I practice judo.
    The Kodokan, or “School for Studying the Way,” was founded in 1882 by Kano Jigoro, the inventor of modern judo. A student of various schools of swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat, Kano distilled a new system of fighting based on the principle of maximum efficiency in the application of physical and mental energy. Loosely speaking, judo is to Western wrestling what karate is to boxing. It’s a system not of punches and kicks, but of throws and grappling, distinguished by an arsenal of brutal joint locks and deadly strangling techniques, all of which must of course be employed with great care in the practice hall. Judo literally means “the way of gentleness” or “the way of giving in.” I wonder what Kano would make of my interpretation.
    Today the Kodokan is housed in a surprisingly modern and bland eight-story building in Bunkyo-ku, southwest of Ueno Park and just a few kilometers from my neighborhood. I used the subway to get to Kasuga, the nearest station, changed in one of the locker rooms, then took the stairs to the
daidojo,
the main practice room, where the Tokyo University team was visiting. After I threw my first
uke
easily and made him tap out with a strangle, the college kids all lined up to do battle with the seasoned warrior. They were young and tough but no match for old age and treachery; after about a half hour of nonstop
randori
I was still consistently coming out on top, especially when it went to groundwork.
    A couple of times, as I returned to the
hajime
position after a throw, I noticed a Japanese
kurobi
, a black belt, stretching out in the corner of the tatami mats. His belt was tattered and more gray than black, which